Common Threads
by ladieDAWN
Summary: In New York at the turn of the 19th Century, 7 young women discover that their lives aren't that different. A soon-to-be-Nun, a vaudeville starlet, 2 hard-working seamstresses, the Governor's daughter, the Mayor's daughter & a wealthy newspaper heiress discover the threads that tie them together are stronger than ever imagined. (Oh, and there are a few Newsies running around too!)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Hey there! Greeting from a long time Newsies fan and first time writer. This story idea actually came from a non fiction book I read about turn of the century New York. Add that too a late night screening of the Newsies on come cbale movie network and you've got the making of **Common Threads. **Constance Pulitzer and Alice Roosevelt are based on actual women, while my oc's Helena, Lorraine, Marlene, Cynthia and Dolores were born of my own imagination. Dolores is the daughter of mayor Van Wyck, who was actually the Mayor of New York in the year the Newsies is set, but she is still a fictional conjuring. There will be romantic pairings, but I won't tell which ones. Just wait and see!

* * *

Helena Coburn was a Nun.

Well, she _wanted _to be a Nun. Mother Superior told her she couldn't become a Novice for another year. She was a Postulant now, which meant she wore no robes, no veil and no habit. She wore a simple black dress and wore her vibrant red hair in a knot at the nape of her neck. Every morning she woke before dawn to pray, every day she devoted her time to feeding the poor and daily devotions. As a Postulant, she was able to go out into the world, taking odd jobs as a tutor for young girls, or taking in mending for local people willing to pay for her services.

Her parents lived at home, and she visited them from time to time, but she spent most of her time in a small, bare room inside St. Margaret's Church. She sung in the choir and learned classical Latin and always had food in her stomach. It may have been bland and It may not have been much, it was her life and it sure beat starving to death.

That's why, every morning without fail she followed her fellow sisters three blocks down the street, where they set up a stand for the hungry to gather around and eat the food they provided. Every morning she watched a multitude of faces pass her, hungry and hopeless, until their supply was depleted. Every morning she thanked God that she had found a home amongst the Sisters of St. Margaret's, and every day she grew more and more used to the idea of taking her vows.

Helena Coburn was a nun and every morning she passed Irving Hall on her way to feeding the poor of Manhatten…

* * *

Lorriane De'Roet was a fraud.

Her real name was Emma Bonner, but her stage name needed to be glamorous, and hers didn't fit the bill. So, she'd adopted her own. She wore the vividest fabrics and the most elaborate stage costumes every day and her off stage wardrobe was just as luxurious. Medda was generous with her wardrobe budget. Her actresses needed to look the best, because the best looking starlets sold the most tickets.

She had about ten girls on payroll at Irving Hall, but Lorraine was pegged as the next big star. She got the second highest ticket sales, right after Medda, and the Swedish Medow Lark was training her most apt pupil to follow in her famous footsteps. Little Lorraine would keep the crowds coming in when Medda decided she'd had enough time as Irving Hall's main attraction. That time might not come for a while, but Medda believed it was never too early to start preparing.

Every day she performed at least three shows, every week the shows changed. She was a pro at memorizing her lines and could pull off comedy, drama and everything in between. She was touted as the next big Vaudeville starlet, and touted as a beauty everywhere Irving Hall's patrons spoke of her. Little did they know that under all the makeup, the sparkling jewels and the lavish costumes she was a very plain girl. Her hair was pin straight and thin. It was dark brown, nearly black. She wasn't curvy, like Medda, and had to rely on the older woman's tricks to make herself look voluptuous on stage. But she lived the lie quite well.

She tried her best to be the best, the premier actress of her generation, a talent that would bring in customers to Irving the way Medda did. She owed the woman her life, after all.

Lorraine De'Roet was a fraud and every morning she watched from her window as the doors of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory opened for business…

* * *

Marlene Adler hated Cynthia Monroe.

At least, she pretended to most of the time. Truth was, Cynthia was her best friend. She was her only real friend. She had taken Marlene under her wing when she'd first arrived in New York, and had provided a safe haven for her ever since. Her family had become Cynthia's family and she loved them like they were her blood kin. They all had light brown, thick, curly hair and long, lean bodies while Marlene was short and curvaceous, with very pale blonde hair and eyelashes. Even so, she never felt different from the Monroe's, because her friend-turned-sister had made such an effort to make her feel welcome. She was a wonderful friend to Marlene, but boy could Cynthia gum up the works.

Every morning, they were expected to show up at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory at six thirty sharp for their 12 hour shift. If women were late they were turned away at the door. A line of women waited, ready to take their place if necessary. So the women inside knew it was best _not _to be late. Most mornings, Cynthia made it nearly impossible to make it on time. If it wasn't one thing, it was another.

She couldn't find a shirt, or a shoe. She needed to comb her hair or wash her face. She over slept or she insisted on sitting down to a lengthy breakfast. She wanted to talk to her Father, she wanted to take a walk down by the river, she felt like taking a different route. Whatever the deadline, Cynthia could dream up any number of procrastinations to suit it. But Marlene never left her behind, no matter what she was always by her side, and miraculously they never seemed to show up late. They might have come sailing through the doors at six twenty nine, but they always got through the doors.

Their days were long and tiring, and they were lucky if they brought in eleven dollars a month, but it was a job and it was money. Cynthia's whole family worked, her older brother Nicolas, her Mother, her Father, even her Grandpa James. They all lived together in a three bedroom apartment about nine blocks down from the factory and everyone chipped in to help make ends meet. Marlene had begun boarding with them two years prior, after she was orphaned only a few months after she and her Father had landed at Ellis Island after a long trip from Dusseldorf. Cynthia had found the fifteen year old girl crying on church steps and she had brought her home. The rest was history.

Cynthia, who considered Marlene to be her God-given sister, looked out for the girl as best she could. She had taught her how to speak and understand English, but not to read or write it. She knew how to do both, but not how to teach them, and her Mother didn't have the time to teach another child those things. She made sure they were always together at work, so that if Marlene had any difficulties she could quickly come to her aid. She'd been working at the factory since she was twelve, and could always lend a helping hand. Marlene had only been working at the Factory for a year and a half, and mistakes often got women fired. You didn't waist the companies money. or their time.

So, every day when the lunch bell rang, all the women would hurry out to the steps beside the factory and eat their lunches. They ate quickly, knowing that any tardiness would cost them their jobs. Marlene and Cynthia always tried to get the most out of their time, and they always sat in the same little spot. At those times, Marlene was grateful to have found such a loyal, caring friend. But at other times...

Marlene Adler hated Cynthia Monroe, and every afternoon they at lunch together and waved at their neighbor Lydia Langford as she hurried past them towards the lavish houses uptown...

* * *

Constance Pulitzer had a weak stomach.

Every morning she would hear it growl and dread what terrors her hunger would bring. Certain foods were manageable, but others made her sick to her stomach for days. Her Mother, that stalwart, beautiful, compassionate woman, tried her very best to soothe her daughter's discomfort, but without Lydia's special tonic it seemed nothing would go down. Lydia didn't arrive till one o'clock every afternoon, but luckily she always kept a spare bottle in the cupboard, just in case Constance needed some when she was away. Constance had often wondered why Lydia didn't just work at their home all day, but her Mother had explained it.

Lydia had to help her Mother sell her fabrics and other wares. They needed both the incomes and Katherine Pulitzer was happy to oblige. So, everyday as the family at down to lunch Lydia would arrive, dipping a quick curtsy at the door of the dining room and then heading back to the kitchen to tie on her apron and bonnet. The Pulitzer family owned a large oak table, brought over from Hungry by Constance's grandfather. Three times a day they sat there. For two meals, their Father was present, but at lunch he was always absent, except on Sundays.

He spent his time running his ultra successful Newspaper, the New York World, and recently Constance's elder brother Ralph had begun going to the office, as he would run the company some day. Her other siblings, Joseph, Edith and Herbert were all younger than her and her elder sister Lucille had died two years earlier from Typhoid fever. Despite their Father's many absences, they were a close knit family thanks to their Mother's efforts. Constance thanked god everyday that she looked like her Mother, with her soft golden hair, her full lipped smile and her vivid green eyes. She only hoped her Mother's inner beauty had been passed down as well as her outer beauty. She looked at her Father, a man who had a truly good heart, but had let his ambiton and greed blacken his heart. Since Lucille's death he had been obsessed with profit, and it seemed nothing else interested him. No matter what happened, Constance didn't want to end up like her Father. But she always had a constant reminder of him in her morning travails. Joseph had suffered from indegestion and nausea his whole life, along with a plethora of other ailments that Constance couldn't even name. That was why she valued Lydia so. To banish the discfomrot was to banish the reminder that she was, in fact, her Father's Daughter.

Constance Pulitzer had a weak stomach, and every evening she took a bottle of Lydia's tonic with her to the young lady's sowing circle she frequented...

* * *

Dolores Van Wyck never had much luck with embrodiery.

Although it was only a hobby she had picked up recently, she had been sure she would master it quickly. She always amstered thigns quickly. Her Father, who had seen to her education her whole life, was always calling her his little crack-o-the-whip, for her sharp intellect. But apparently, it took mroe than intellect to take on a simple chain stitch. Her Mother, who was often less-than-thrilled with Dolores's social habits, had declared that in honor of Dolores's new undertaking she would invite a select group of young ladies to join her in the evenings before supper. It was a wholesome activity and one Robert Van Wyck agreed with whole heartedly. Dolores was seventeen now, and they had both decided that she was nearing the age for her societal debut. In order to be properly prepared, she would have to interact with other well-bred young ladies.

Dolores had no use for them. She realized, as the Van Wyck's only daughter, that she would have to leave her parent's home at some point and face the wide world. Her Mother told her that she would have to marry, now that her education was finished, and make a lfie for herself with a man of means and standing. none of that mattered to Dolores. She wanted no ment, no marriage and no responsibilities. Being the daughter of the Mayor didn't change her mind. Her Father had been elected two years before and where once she had been a talented lawyer's daughter, she was now the daughter of a mayor. Things had changed quickly.

The social circle they now orbited in was all glitter and gold. There was no place for a quiet, mousy, brown-haired, studious, specticled girl who liked the feel of boy's trouser's better than the swish of lace and silk. She had made friends since her Mother had started the circle. While most of the girls spoke only of beaus, parties, fashion, and the latest romance novels, she had found two diamonds in the rough. Constance Pullitzer was one, daughter to one of the wealthiest men in New York; and Alice Roosevelt was another. The Governor's daughter wanted more, she wanted adventure and challenges. Now that, embrodiery was growing tedious, she spent most of her time talking to those two, and they were the only reason she hand't sugested her Mother discontinue the little stitching circle.

Dolores Van Wyck never had much luck with embrodery, and every night she thanked God for her friend's stimulating company...

* * *

Alice Roosevelt constantly dreamed of running away.

When she woke in the morning, and her dreadful Stepmother was busy with her real children, she thought of running out the door. When she was eating her meals, served in the immaculately decorated dining room, she heard the sounds of the city outside and she wondered what it would be like to roam the streets unincumbered. When she studied with her tutor or wrote her weekly letter to her Aunt Bye she thought of planning a trip to London where she could be free of her Father's new family and his disinterest. Every day she looekd more and more like her, beautiful, poor dead Mother and everyday it seemed Theodore wanted to see less and less of her. it hurt him, to think of his dead wife, but he never imagined how much it hurt his daughter.

Some said she should count herself lucky. her Father was the Governor of New York and some claimed he would be President someday. They were wealthy, both her Father and her Mother had considerate fortunes, and she was a smart, beautiful girl with a bright future. But Alice was headstrong and willful. She was not as ladylike as many would expect of a girl in her societal standing, and her Stepmother made it painfully obvious in the way she dissapproved of her Stepdaughrer's dress, deportment and behavior. It only made Alice want to act more and more unseemly, if only to make Stepmother Edith frown. It was a petty victory, but one she valued none-the-less. Her friends often chided her, claiming that Edith was kind and smart and that she was only causing problems because she missed her Mother. But she always told Dolores and Constance that she didn't remember her Mother. The woman had died two days after her birth.

She couldn't see Edith as a kind, caring, intelligent woman. She may well have been, but Alice theorized that she got enough love from her Father and their five children. Why should she show her any more? But it wasn't really her family that made her want to run. She could have been given any family, but there was something inside of her that needed change. Constant change. Adventers were waiting int he big wide world and they were happening without her. On trips to Boston to visit her grandparents she would wonder at the sights she saw and the people she met. She wanted to take to the sea and visit Aunt Bye in London, to take in the sights and see more of the world. above all, that was what she craved. More, bigger, better, newer. She wanted to chase those heady sensations whereever they would take her. But she was only fifteen, as everyone was always reminding her, and she couldn't make it out there on hr own. Alice was impulsive, she wasn't stupid.

Alice Roosevelt constantly dreamed of running away, but every night she had to be content with sleeping in her bed, in her Father's house, in New York city...


	2. Chapter 2

"Postulant Coburn." Sister Irene's voice was quiet behind Helena as she walked down the street, lifting the hem of her black skirt, so as not wade in the muck and mire "Does a little mud really warrant such unseemly behavior?"

The red haired young woman stared back at Sister Irene, who was giving her a stern glance. She stared back, confusion clouding her features.

"Sister I do not know-"

A long, thin, finger pointed to where Helena had offended the Nun's sensibilities. Looking down, she spotted the thick white material of her stockings peeking at the bottom of her raised hem. She felt indignation rise up in her, but she didn't speak. Any report of insolence would only give Mother Superior a chance to claim she was unready to take her vows. She already had to wait out the year, at least. How much longer was up to her. She let the material fall back to the ground. She instantly felt the wed, slimy mud as it weighed down the material. It would take forever to clean the material, one of the two dresses she owned. She tried not to let any sign of anger or annoyance show.

"Sacrifice, dear Helena, is our way. It may seem small to you, but your vanity is a sin. Shapely ankles and spotless linen matter little to our Lord."

Helena nodded and continued beside the much older Nun. She was escorting the sister to an ill woman's house near her parent's. She would stay with her for a few hours, and Helena was expected to drop off a little money to her Mother today. Then they would meet again and make their way back to Saint Margaret's for evening prayer.

Helena was happy to have some money to take back to her family, and since the incessant rain had finally stopped that morning she was pleased to be out in the strong sunshine. A moderate breeze blew around them and she felt herself fighting the urge to hum a little tune as they neared the Widow Benson's apartment. When they got to the imposing, tall, stone building Sister Irene stopped and put a hand on Helena's shoulder.

"In all that you do, be a mirror of the Lord. Let your soul shine to the world, as a beacon."

She gave a curt nod and ascended the heavy stone steps. Helena knew she would have to be back in two hours' time and no later. So, without a second's thought she cut across the street to the other side, and headed down that street towards the house she had grown up in.

This neighborhood, mostly Irish and Scottish immigrants, was all Helena had known before she'd begun her time at Saint Margaret's. The houses were all modest and quaint, many of them filled to the brim with children. It was notorious for gang activity, with many of the street gangs gaining notoriety as of late, building criminal empires based on their countries of origin. The Italians, the Poles, the Russians and the Scots and Irishmen all had a stronghold in the New York Underworld.

Helena knew more about this world than most. Her Uncle, Balloch Coburn, had come to America as a boy with her Father. While Niall Coburn had become an honest carpenter, Balloch had joined a street gang young, and now lead up one of the boldest and most dangerous gangs in all of Manhattan. They called him "Black Balloch" for his long, jet black hair and the ugly winding scar that stretched from his temple down to his collarbone. It had discolored the skin to an almost pitch black. He was a frightening man, one who Helena hadn't seen since she was very small. Her Mother, an Irish lady who had med her Father when they were only thirteen, hated Uncle Balloch and all her stood for. Most of the men of her family had been killed years earlier, during a fight between the Bowery Boys and the Dead Rabbits.

Her Grandpa had been a part of the Dead Rabbits and since his death her mother had abhorred the senseless violence of the New York street gangs. That was fine with Helena. She had seen enough of it to last her a lifetime, and she was only eighteen.

As she neared her Father's house, she saw a group of young boys heading up the walk. As if he had read her mind, one came strolling up to her, as pretty as you please. It was someone she was familiar with, but who she never liked running into.

"What're ye doin here Callum?" she asked, hands on her hips, one slender, red eyebrow raised slightly.

"Well hello to ya too, cousin mine." He said, tucking his thumbs behind his suspenders and giving them a little snap "S'not often we see our Sainted little Helena round here now is it?"

She fixed him with a glare and motioned towards the house.

"If Mam sees you lot out here she'll skin ya for sure Callum."

He laughed and his friends behind him, five in total, laughed as well. Callum was Black Balloch's youngest son. Balloch, who'd never married, had children born on the wrong side of the blanket all over the city. Callum, who was tall and shared his Father's dark coloring, was a ruthless, violent youth who Helena had always despised.

"Oh please, no! Branna the Paddy harpy's ganna beat me to death with her rolling pin!"

Helena pushed past him, heading up the walk, he followed. She spun around, her hair nearly flying free of its pins.

"Get out of here Callum Coburn, or so help me God-"

"Taking the laird's name in vain? What would yer Sisters at that pretty, marble church have to say about that eh Lena?"

He fixed her with one last mocking stare, spit into the grass at her feet, and turned around, heading back from where he came. Helena was shaking with anger and as she headed up the crumbling stone steps to the house, she heard the door open.

"Was that dreadful heathen on my property again?" Ironically, she was brandishing her big, wooden rolling pin "I told him the next time I saw him I'd tan his Godless hide!"

Helena laughed and put a hand on her Mother's shoulder.

"He's gone Mam. Come on, let's go in. I'm famished."

As she shut the door behind her, she listed off one more reason why she was glad to be behind the secure walls of Saint Margaret's now. The gangs were dangerous, and her family was far too close to the danger. She wanted nothing to do with the likes of Callum Coburn, Black Balloch, any of their friends and certainly any of their enemies. She worried about her Parents and her younger sibling's safety all the time. But what could she do? Escape had provided her safety, but Saint Margaret's could not take in the whole Coburn brood.

* * *

The rehearsal was going disastrously.

"That's the wrong scene Thomas!" Medda yelled up at her prop master "No snow till at least the third act."

Lorraine laughed as the little paper shavings fell over her head. She was wearing a luxurious ball gown, but had done no hair and makeup today. The dress itself was heavy and cumbersome enough, she hadn't wanted to paint up her face and tousle her hair this early. No one expected her to. Come opening night, of course, that would be a different story.

"We have to get the Oriental set up and running for this afternoon's show and you can't even get me through one rehearsal run Thomas! Lorraine stop laughing, this is a serious matter!"

Lorraine put a slender hand over her face and watched as one of the stagehands ran to sweep the "snowflakes" into a box. She was playing Catherine the Great in Medda's newest, grand, sweeping musical. She liked the part, and loved the costumes, but Medda seemed worried it wouldn't turn out.

"We've got three weeks Medda." Eric Mason called from his spot on the Russian sled in the corner "Why don't we call all this off for today and set up for _The Magic Lute_ before lunch?"

Medda's own growling stomach cemented the decision. Plus, the crowds would be here soon and Lorraine's performance in the play had garnered some real attention. Medda sighed and ran a hand through her thick hair.

"Very well! Thomas, start getting the stage set up please. Lorraine, come down here darling. I'll help you out of your costume."

Lorraine complied, heading down the stairs towards Medda. They headed towards the ladies dressing room and Medda began peeling away the layers of gold and silver cloth. She wrapped Lorraine in a thick dressing gown and a robe and ushered her back out the door. They headed upstairs, where Medda's living quarters were, and Lorraine's. Aside from Thomas, they were the only souls who lived above Irving Hall. It had been Lorraine's home since she was twelve, when her Father had left and she had been homeless little Emma Bonner. Now, she lived in a spacious room only a few feet from Medda.

There was a little kitchen, a sitting room, three rooms for living and even a study. It was a nice place with a pretty view and Lorraine loved sitting with Medda in front of her big window and watching the hustle and bustle of the city below her.

"Lorraine dear, I have something to tell you."

Lorraine looked up at Medda's grave face. She had been preoccupied of late and Lorraine had been afraid to ask. Her one fear in life was to merit Medda's displeasure. She'd gone this long without doing it and hoped that had not changed. As Medda paced in front of the window, she turned her stunning face to her young pupil.

"I have had to let Marie go."

The younger girl looked up, confused.

"Marie? But why? She was to be the Empress Elizabeth in _The Grand Duchess_!"

They had only done a few scenes together but there had been a definite chemistry. Even dressed up as the aging, overweight Empress, Marie had done an excellent job. They had talked of their expectations for a great show. Now, Medda had let her go for no discernible reason. Why? Was she planning on letting Lorraine go? Her palms were sweaty at the thought.

"She was pregnant dear." Medda said, finally discontinuing her pacing "She told me just last week. That is why she has not been by Irving. She is going to be a mother."

Lorraine gasped. She and Marie had been friends. She hadn't even known that there had been a man in her life to get her pregnant. She covered her mouth with her hand, this time out of shock. Poor Marie.

"The Father?" she asked softly "Will she have any help?"

Medda shook her head, her eyes darkening.

"I'm afraid not. The boy responsible will take no part in the babe's life. He leaves to to disgrace and ruin. That is the lesson in all this, my dear heart. You must remember it."

"Medda you know I would never."

The older woman held up a hand and then turned to look out the window.

"Marie confided in me. She claims that Callum Coburn fathered her child."

Lorraine felt all the air leak from her lungs. She could not believe the words that had just come from Medda's mouth. Her face reddened in shock. Medda knew, she knew. That was the only explanation for this talk. But the knowledge of Medda finding out her secret battled with the mutual feelings of betrayal and confusion. Callum? And Marie? Her friend and the man she loved? There was no way! But why would Marie lie to Medda? What purpose would that serve?

Lorraine said nothing, afraid of Medda's next words.

"Child, he is not what he appears. He is a horrible young man. I have seen him hanging about the neighborhood. Jack says he's nothing but a ruffian and a-"

She bristled at Medda's comment and turned sharply.

"Jack Kelly is as much a danger as any other young man running the streets." She said softly "He and his Newsies are always about causing trouble."

Medda sighed. She had tried before, in vain, to foster a warm feeling between Jack "Cowboy" Kelly and her little Lorraine. But Lorraine wanted nothing to do with him. It was probably because she had met Callum nearly six months before Medda had introduced Jack and Lorraine. Maybe if she hadn't met the Scottish youth before they could have been friends. But Lorraine would never care for Jack in any way other than that, and because Medda had tried so hard to thrust him at her, even friendship had become impossible. She could almost say she hated Jack, even though he had never done anything to her to warrant it.

"Lorraine please." Medda said finally sitting down "I only want what is best for you. Now that you know of Marie's predicament you must sever ties with that horrible boy."

She pursed her lips but did not speak.

"I mean it Lorraine. I will not stand idly by while he ruins your life as he has done to Marie. Do you understand me?"

Lorraine never contradicted Medda. She never went against her wishes. That's why she had hidden her love for Callum so thoroughly. But now, not Medda had found out. She didn't know if Marie was telling the truth, but even if she was Lorraine didn't know if she could just leave Callum forever. Medda just didn't realize what she was asking.

"I understand Ma'mm."

She whispered her assent and hung her head. Medda would be watching her like a hawk now and she despaired of seeing Callum for God-knows-how-long. But what was worse is that she was lying to her benefactress, the woman who had given her a new life and a new hope. She felt her stomach roil.

"Very well. Now, go get dressed and we will go out to lunch. Maybe at Tilly's?"

Lorraine didn't speak, but nodded and stood, leaving the room. A mantle of sadness settled over her. She thought of Marie and felt her eyes prickle with tears. This was shaping up to be a horrible day.


	3. Chapter 3

"Sarah!" Marlene startled as Cynthia's voice echoed boomed loudly behind her.

They were walking up the steps, wicker baskets under both arms. They'd both had a long day, and were only just arriving home as dusk settled on the city. Saturday and Sundays were their only days off, but even so they spent the majority of those days taking in neighbors mending and washing it for a small fee. Most liked their Church clothes laundered and ready that very night.

Marlene looked forward to nothing more than a warm meal and a good night sleep. Mrs. Monroe would have them all up for services the next morning, but afterwards they would be allowed a luxurious nap before beginning on the Sunday mending. But of course, Cynthia loved to chatter with a beloved neighbor. She and Sarah Jacobs had been friends for years, and even though Marlene wasn't as close to her as Cynthia, she enjoyed the girl's company.

"Hello Cynthia! Marlene!" Sarah looked tired, pulling her white apron from the front of her dress. Even so, she found enough energy for a hearty smile and embraces for both of the girls. "You're both looking wonderful. How are you?"

Cynthia waved her hands absentmindedly.

"Oh, you know, it's the same old routine; work, sleep, work, sleep. Occasionally we eat as well." She motioned towards Marlene "This one's even got a beau now."

Marlene shot her a look, an angry one. She meant Morris Delancey, who had recently stepped up his courting. Cynthia found it comical, but Marlene found it insufferable. Cynthia laughed, but Sarah didn't notice the ire on Marlene's face.

"Well, well, well, you little minx. Who is it? Is it that Walter Milton boy from church?"

Cynthia snickered.

"No, no." Marlene said softly, looking down at her scuffed slippers, exasperated "Not him. And she speaks of Morris Delancey. But he is not my beau by any means."

Cynthia rolled her eyes. Her fun finished, she turned gravely towards Sarah. Her tired smile made Cynthia's heart ache in the evening glow. Her family had gone through some hard times recently, with their Father's work injury barring him from making any money. All of the children had left school and were planning on getting work in the interim.

"What about you Sarah?" she stepped forward, taking one of the girl's hands "How are you? I saw Les and David leave this morning, quite early."

Sarah's smile faltered.

"We're all doing well." She looked towards the door, where outside, the sounds of the city rumbled ceaselessly "David and Les have gone to sell papers for The New York World. Father was upset by David pushing aside his schooling, but the boys swear it'll be lucrative work."

She shrugged, her shoulders slumping as if hampered by an invisible weight. Marlene felt her own mouth tugging down in a frown. Sarah had such a good heart, and the Jacobs were a good family. David was intelligent, always reading some book or spouting some quote. Marlene had, in the past, fancied herself enamored with David. But he had never seemed to give her a second glance. And why should he? What would David Jacobs want with some sour, timid German girl? She shook the thought from her head and waited for Cynthia to say her goodbyes. As they neared the Monroe's front door, she saw a pained look cross Cynthia's face.

"I wish there was more we could do, to help them…"

Her voice tapered off. Marlene shook her head, pushing the door open and stepping inside.

"Come. There is no use in overthinking it. We cannot help her when we need the help ourselves."

Cynthia nodded. Her family still struggled to make ends meet, even with Marlene's added wages. It was the plight of all of them, trapped under poverty's thumb. She sighed and followed her friend into the small apartment. Her mother would have a modest supper prepared and after that, she and Marlene would both have a warm bath and head off to an early bed. Not that she minded of course. When the chance to rest presented itself, even Cynthia Monroe knew not to dawdle…overmuch.

* * *

The rain had begun as soon as their carriage had left the house that morning. Constance had stared out as the little pitter-patters had begun on the window. Her Father had harrumphed, his feathers ruffled by the sudden deluge brought on by Mother Nature's whim. If Joseph Pulitzer could command the weather, as he felt he was entitled, there would be no inconvenient Sunday morning rains.

Constance felt guilt as a sudden jolt of satisfaction washed over her. Anything that thwarted her Father brought her acute joy. The whole ride to St. Margaret's, she had hidden her face behind a silk gloved hand, her grin growing with every annoyed tick or grumble. Her Mother eyes her from across the coach, her eyes narrowing with disdain. She knew of her daughter's ill feelings towards her Father and had tried her best to stifle them, but to no avail. Mostly, Constance never did anything against her Mother's wishes, but the black feelings that had grown inside of her, in reference to her Father, were too strong for her to suppress. Of course, he hadn't the slightest idea.

As the Pulitzer family ducked into their pew in the Cathedral, she felt her Mother's eyes on her. She wondered, momentarily, how angry God was at her for breaking his Commandment to honor one's parents. She held little honor for her Father, and saved it all for her Mother. She must have thought her eldest daughter was wicked indeed.

"Good day Mrs. Pullitzer, good day Constance."

A familiar, lilting Gaelic made Constance smile affectionately. Helena Coburn was a Postulant at St. Margaret's who had helped Constance with her catechism, before her first Communion. Whenever the Pulitzer's came to Mass, she always made sure to drop by and at least say hello. Constance liked Helena's cheerful nature, and her ready smile. The hours they had spent together, they had learned a lot about each other and Constance considered her a good friend. Of course, Helena Coburn was from a rather unsavory part of the city, and her parents would never approve of such an acquaintance, outside of Sunday service.

"Good day Helena!"

They shared their customary smile and Constance reached out to squeeze her friend's hand softly. What she would give for a few hours to laugh and talk with Helena again, the way she did with Alice and Dolores. She thought, for only a moment, that they would enjoy Helena's company as equally as she. But one glance at her Father's stern upturned face and that fantasy was dashed. She was not free to make friends with who she pleased.

As the carriage bumped along the road, back towards their home, she felt that anger towards Joseph Pulitzer grow. He often called her the perfect daughter. What did he know of his perfect daughter? She wished she could show him just how imperfect she was. She wanted, only, to see his face when she did something to anger him, or to disappoint him. As this thought entered her mind, she clenched her fists. Her stomach had begun to pain her. A sign, she assumed, the Almighty sent to punish her sins. From across the carriage, her Mother looked sad.

Constance turned towards her little siblings, trying her hardest not to catch the woman's eye.


End file.
